Mourn in dews is marching, singing lullaby,
And the wayís appearing as a magic line.
As my happy childhood, as my painful good-by,
As an ever-silent sadness long of mine.

Oh my blooming land, endless fretful road,
Youíre an immortelle, thunders which are near.
I will bring my heart to your very threshold,
As your drop of blood, as your lonely tear.

And when Iíll be bended after fighting sway,
Let all winds be furious, lightning Ė be a spear!
Iíll call native steppes, willows on the way,
And my soulís relieved by a virgin tear.